Biggles and the Get Well Present
by Archie Partridge
Summary: It's WW1, and Biggles is keeping up his friendly rivalry with Captain Wilkinson of 287 Squadron as a distraction from fighting the Germans- the only question is, just what will the boys get up to next...?
1. Chapter 1

Algy Lacey, of 266 Squadron, Maranique, was returning from a routine morning patrol with the rest of his Flight when the engine of his Camel began to give trouble. A momentary frown crossed his brow as he dropped behind the others; then he looked down, and saw that he was nearing the aerodrome of the neighbouring squadron, No. 287. His face cleared. Cutting the engine altogether, he glided down on to the Tarmac, making a clean, if unspectacular, landing.

To his surprise, no one came out to greet him, although they must have seen the Camel land; he was just about to get down from the cockpit to investigate when a voice called urgently from outside the sheds,

"Stay where you are!"

Algy stopped, looking round. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"Don't get out of the cockpit, whatever you do."

"All right," protested Algy, who by this time had identified the speaker as Parker, one of 287's pilots. "I'm not moving. It's a nice friendly welcome you give people round here, though, I must say. What's the big idea?"

Parker advanced part way towards him, then stopped. "We're in quarantine," he called.

"You're what? What for?"

"Wilkinson- Wilks has got German measles."

Algy laughed. "He must have been spending too much time on the wrong side of the Lines." His face became serious, however, as he realised it was not just an elaborate leg-pull. "You're being serious?"

"Yes."

"Is he all right?"

"As a matter of fact, he's hopping mad. Colonel Raymond was here from Wing this morning; there's a balloon over at Duneville he wants taking down..."

"Not that blasted sausage again," said Algy disgustedly.

"There's a prize for whoever manages to keep it on the ground for the next two days. Now Wilks is grounded, and I've never seen him in such a foul mood. He's convinced your Squadron's going to get it."

"We probably will," grinned Algy. "I hadn't heard anything about it before I came out this morning, though. Which reminds me; I can't sit here for ever. You'll have to let me out to go home; my engine's bust. Any chance of a lift?"

"I've told you, we're not allowed near anybody."

"I'll risk it," said Algy firmly. "I'm not foot-slogging all the way back."

"You might; we won't. You didn't hear the M.O. on the subject," retorted Parker. "You won't find a lift here. I'll ring up your lot and let them know you're coming, if you like."

"Thanks very much," returned Algy in disgruntled tones. "I'll do as much for you some day. I suppose I am allowed to walk off the premises?"

"Oh, yes. As long as you don't touch anything."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Never know where your lot have been at the best of times." With which insult, Algy jumped down from his Camel and began to stroll across the aerodrome without giving Parker a chance to reply.

By the time he reached his own squadron's aerodrome, Algy was hot, dusty and dishevelled. He had managed to hitch a ride in a farmer's cart for part of the journey, but it had been mostly made on foot; so his first thought on reaching home was to head straight for the officers' mess and get himself a drink.

The other occupants of the mess looked up as he came in.

"So here you are!" exclaimed Biggles cheerfully. "We wondered when you were going to turn up."

Algy glared. "You knew I was on my way, then? I notice none of you thought of coming out to fetch me."

Biggles removed his feet from the chair he had been resting them on and pushed it across to Algy, then got up to pour him a cup of tea. "We would have done, but the tender burst its tyre; and by the time it was changed... well, you were nearly here," he said apologetically. "Couldn't Wilks's lot have brought you over? Parker rang and said you'd crash-landed at their aerodrome."

"I suppose he didn't tell you they're in quarantine and not allowed out?" growled Algy.

"How did you get out, then?" demanded Mahoney, shifting his chair noticeably further from Algy's. "And how do we know you haven't brought anything back with you?"

"Don't be an ass," said Algy, taking his tea from Biggles. "I wasn't there long enough." Changing the subject, as Biggles sat back down, he added, "Have any of you heard about this balloon?"

"The Duneville one? Colonel Raymond called in to tell us about it earlier. There's four days' Paris leave for whoever manages to keep it on the carpet for the next two days; but I reminded him that was more likely Wilks's scene than mine..."

"It isn't now," interrupted Algy.

"What?"

"Wilks is the one who's put 287 in quarantine. He's grounded; German measles. And he's as sore as a bear, apparently, because he thinks we're going to get one over on him and get the sausage before he does."

"Poor old Wilks," said Biggles, with genuine sympathy. "He must be feeling rotten about it; maybe we should send him something to cheer him up..." He paused mid-sentence as the sound of an aero engine cut the air above them.

"One of ours," remarked Mahoney. He went to the window and looked out. "An S.E. 5."

Biggles and Algy joined him.

"That looks like one of 287's machines," observed Algy. "It is..." They stared, dumbfounded, as the machine swept low over the aerodrome; then, as the pilot pitched something out of his cockpit, they ran outside for a closer look. By the time they got there the S.E. 5 was gone again; obviously its pilot had not been inclined to waste time.

"Well! What was all that about?" queried Biggles in amazement.

"Looks like a message," replied Algy doubtfully. Biggles started forward to pick it up; but Mahoney called him back.

"Hey! Wait a minute; what if it's infectious? The Old Man won't be too pleased if we all start coming out in spots."

"Oh, don't talk rot," retorted Biggles. "What's a bit of paper going to do to me?" Lifting up the message bag from where it lay, he took out the contents and began to read, his expression becoming more and more incredulous as he did so.

"What's it say, then?" demanded the others impatiently.

"I don't know about German measles, but Wilks certainly seems to be suffering from softening of the brain," said Biggles at last. "He seems to think we should leave that balloon- his balloon, he says- severely alone for as long as he's grounded; it obviously hasn't occurred to him that the brass-hats might have a thing or two to say if we did! If he's out of things, that's his bad luck; but I don't see how he thinks he's going to order us about because of it! Leave it alone- his balloon! I'll do nothing of the sort." Biggles stared at the note for a moment or two; then a slow smile spread across his face. "In fact, I'll show him just where he stands."

Taking Wilks's note inside, he threw it on the fire, to be on the safe side; then he turned to Algy.

"Find me a bit of paper and a pen, will you? I've got a message to write."

Algy obligingly hurried off, to return a few minutes later with the required articles.

"What are you going to write?" he asked curiously.

"Wait and see." Biggles sat down at the table and set to work; five minutes later, he leant back in his chair and called the others back over. "What do you think of that?"

Leaning over his shoulder, Algy and Mahoney read what he had written.

_We regret that Captain Wilkinson is unable to attend to his flying duties, but we see no reason for his indisposition to stop us attending to ours. Our most sincere wishes for the speedy return of his good health, and we hope to present him with a piece of German sausage as a getting-well present at the earliest opportunity. _

_Signed on behalf of the officers of Squadron No. 266,_

_J.C. Bigglesworth (Capt.)._

Algy looked at the letter critically. "Well, if Wilks can decipher that scrawl, it should make him sit up," he said.

"I'll have you know that's my best handwriting," retorted Biggles indignantly. "Unless you think you can do any better?"

"No, carry on," replied Algy hurriedly. "Who's going to deliver it?"

"I will," said Biggles. "And then I'd better go and have a look at the scenery round Duneville; I'd hate not to be able to deliver Wilks's present after I've promised him one."

"Do you really mean you're going to try and get a souvenir off that gasbag?"

"I'm going to do more than try, I hope."

Mahoney shook his head sadly. "Cracked," he announced. "Well, it was nice knowing you."

Biggles ignored him. "I'll think of something," he said confidently. "You just wait and see."

"We know you'll think of something," put in Algy. "That's what we're afraid of. Are you sure you don't want company on this sightseeing trip of yours?"

"No, thanks. I'm only popping over for a look at the thing. I don't say I don't want a hand when it comes to getting rid of it, but there's no use in trying anything until we know what we're up against." Biggles gathered up his message from the table, and went to collect his flying kit before any further argument could be made.

Not long afterwards, the sound of a Camel's engine warming up could be heard outside. Algy and Mahoney hurried out just in time to see Biggles taking off. They looked at each other for a moment or two, before Mahoney shrugged his shoulders.

"There's no use in going after him now," he said. "He won't be satisfied until he's got that balloon; wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't come back with the whole thing, basket and all, and dump it on 287's aerodrome."

"But..." began Algy.

"You wouldn't catch him anyway. And he's only gone for a look. As long as that's all he does he should come back in one piece."

"As long as that's all he does," repeated Algy, staring after the departed Camel. "Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

It was late when a rather sorry-looking Camel eventually came in to a bumpy landing on the aerodrome at 266. A number of the squadron's officers, all of whom had, by this time, been alerted to Biggles's intentions, came out to meet it.

The pilot climbed wearily down from the cockpit and looked round at his assembled audience. "Well," he announced, "We're going to have a warm time getting Wilks his present, as far as I can see. I hope he appreciates it."

"Why not just give it up, Biggles?" suggested Mahoney. "You can't be that tired of life."

"Not on your life," answered Biggles obstinately. "I think I can see how it's to be done; but I'll need some help. Let's go inside, and I'll tell you all about it."

"It looks like you've been having fun without us already," remarked Algy, looking at Biggles's battered Camel.

"If that's your idea of fun, laddie, you can keep it," returned Biggles. "Still, I fancy Wilks won't be too pleased when he hears what's been happening to his precious balloon. It'll be up again by tomorrow, though. Come on; let's get a drink."

Leading a procession into the Mess, he waited for everyone to settle comfortably, drinks in hand, before asking,

""How many machines can we put in the air tomorrow?"

"About eight, I think," answered Maclaren. "What are you planning?"

"Wait your hurry," reproved Biggles. "Eight, you say? Let me see." He leant back against the fireplace, thinking; the others waited curiously.

Eventually, Biggles spoke again. "Right. Algy had better come with me. While we go in for the balloon, the rest of you can wait higher up to catch the Huns when they come for us. I only saw three when I was over there just now; but I expect there'll be a few more now they know we're after that sausage. If you can hang about to cover us on the way out, so much the better, but if not we'll just have to manage. I'll leave that to you; okay?" He looked at Mahoney and Maclaren, who both nodded.

"What are we supposed to be doing while everyone else is chasing Huns?" inquired Algy. "Surely it's not going to take two of us to shoot down one sausage?"

"But we're not going to shoot it down," explained Biggles patiently. "We're going to cut it adrift."

"What?"

"The wind's heading in the wrong direction," Mahoney pointed out. "It won't blow over our side of the Lines, if that's what you're thinking."

"I know; that doesn't matter. We don't necessarily want to bring Wilks a whole sausage, anyhow; it might give him indigestion. We just need to distract the gunners while I pinch a souvenir from it. I don't want to end my life in flames, especially just to get a measly present for Wilks."

"I don't see how you're going to help it," argued Algy. "You can't possibly get close enough."

"I shall manage somehow. Don't worry."

Algy raised his eyebrows. "I still think you're mad," he stated.

"Well, you should know," retorted Biggles. "They say it takes one to know one." Before Algy could think of a suitable reply, he went on, "I'm going to go and get my kite fixed up for the morning; you'd better do the same. Coming?"

Without waiting for an answer, Biggles put down his glass on the mantlepiece and disappeared in the direction of the sheds. Algy glanced round helplessly at the rest of the assembled company; then, with a hopeless shrug, he ran to catch him up.


	3. Chapter 3

Early the following morning, eight Camels could be seen lining up for take-off on the Tarmac. The balloon which was their objective was visible almost as soon as they were in the air; but they turned away from it at first, crossing the Lines some four or five miles further along so as not to arouse the suspicions of the balloon's defenders.

Once over, they flew on into enemy territory for ten minutes or so; then, turning, they headed back towards the balloon-station.

As they did so, two of the Camels dropped out of the formation, losing height gradually. Biggles looked across as Algy fell into place at his right-hand wingtip, and grinned. Algy responded with a cheery wave.

Both pilots were carrying heavier than usual armament; on the bomb racks of their Camels were 112-pounder bombs rather than the usual Coopers. Biggles, deciding on tried and tested methods to get the Germans to let go of their balloon, had got his flight sergeant, Smyth, to procure and fit the bombs and racks the previous night.

Glancing upwards, he saw the rest of the squadron dive in underneath the Fokker triplanes patrolling above- eight Fokkers he counted this time, instead of the three of the day before- and immediately prepared for his own part in the affair. The ground crew, intent on the fight going on above them, had no time to react as Biggles, coming in low from behind, let his bomb drop. Algy was only a fraction of a second behind him; then they were climbing for height, the gunners below scattering for cover. One or two of the braver ones made a feeble attempt to keep up the archie, but Biggles and Algy found no difficulty in dodging it.

Algy swept round, strafing the ground to distract the remains of the ground crew, while Biggles headed for the balloon.

"Now to collect a bit of sausage," he murmured to himself.

The sausage, as he had expected, had risen to eight or nine thousand feet almost as soon as it had become detached from its winch. The crew had apparently stayed put long enough to throw out their charts and instruments before jumping themselves; but as Biggles climbed towards it he saw two small figures launching themselves into space from the wicker car, their parachutes mushrooming out behind them a moment later.

He ignored them, intent only on getting to the balloon and somehow taking a souvenir from it; but before he could gain enough height, there was a heavy thump on the wing of his Camel. The aircraft gave a sickening lurch, and it was all Biggles could do to fight to keep it steady. He managed somehow to get it back under control; only to experience a momentary panic as he realised he could no longer see. A large shroud of fabric was hanging down over the centre section; desperately, he tried to bat it away.

To his amazement, it was slowly hauled upwards; only to be replaced by a white, frightened face peering down at him.

"I'm seeing things!" he muttered. "I must have been hit; I'd better get back before I give out altogether." He looked round for Algy, and spotted a solitary Camel chasing the drifting balloon. "There he is; I wish he'd give up and turn round. I daren't hang about much longer."

By this time, all thoughts of capturing part of the balloon had left his mind; and they were driven still further away as the face above him began to shout in German, followed by a hand jabbing frantically downwards and two words in accented English.

"Go down!"

"Go down?" roared Biggles in return. "Not likely! We're still on your side of the Lines!" It suddenly dawned on him that a figment of his imagination was unlikely to be holding a conversation over the roar of the Camel's engine; that the Fokkers, now returning from chasing Mac, Mahoney and the others, were hesitating to attack him although he provided a perfectly easy target; and that the only explanation for the sudden increase in drag that his Camel was experiencing was that there was, in actual fact, a man balanced on top of the wings.

"Hell's bells!" breathed Biggles in amazement. "There's a Hun on top of my 'plane!"


	4. Chapter 4

He glanced upwards once more, to check that he was not mistaken; but the German was still there, still staring at him with a stricken expression.

'It must be one of the observers,' he thought. 'He must have hit me when he baled out; it's a chance in a million! Nobody will ever believe this.' Grinning at his unexpected passenger, Biggles yelled,

"All right, Fritz! Hang on!" Whether the man understood or not, he gripped the edge of the wing tightly. Biggles chuckled to himself. "If he stays on and I make the Lines, maybe Wilks can have his present after all. I know I said a piece of sausage, but a Hun observer's almost as good."

With this thought in mind, he turned and headed for the Lines in earnest. It was all he could do; for with its unusual load on board, the Camel was proving difficult to handle. Biggles was seized by a twinge of horror as he saw something fly off the top of the Camel; then he realised that the German observer, obviously having decided to trust to luck and the skill of his new pilot, had disposed of his parachute in an attempt to reduce the drag he was creating.

'Well, I've got to get back now,' thought Biggles. 'The poor beggar's obviously trusting me to get him down safely.' He looked round anxiously for Algy, and was relieved to see his Camel zooming away from the balloon, which was now going down in flames. 'He'll catch me up soon enough; I mustn't lose my passenger!'

Seeing that Mac and Mahoney were launching another attack on the Fokkers, and that Algy would not be left alone, he turned back to concentrate on getting home, his eyes dancing with laughter. That they had only gone back for long enough to let Algy and himself get clear was soon apparent, for before long Biggles saw the Camels scattering above him, outpacing the Fokkers as they raced for home. He was not too concerned; his unusual passenger meant he was safe from the enemy pilots, none of whom seemed to want to risk hitting one of their own. The mirth died out of his face, however, as the Fokkers gave up the chase; for, instead of all turning back across their own Lines, four of them began to head for an easier target.

A lone S.E. 5 was flying more or less directly towards the balloon station, leaving a trail of archie bursts in its wake.

"Who's that?" exclaimed Biggles. "He must be just out from home, flying like that..." He stopped as he recognised the machine, and swore. "It's Wilks! What's the silly fool playing at? Can't he see the sausage is down?... And he hasn't seen those Tripehounds, either!"

Biggles looked round for the other Camels, but they were nowhere in sight. "They'll get him; bound to. He hasn't got a chance. Poor old Wilks! I can't let them get him; but what can I do, with this perishing fellow balanced on my wing?" Biggles glared at his passenger, all the humour gone out of the situation. "I can't just throw him off, either."

He shot after the Fokkers as fast as he dared, hoping to get close enough to fire a warning shot at the S.E. 5, if nothing else; as he closed in, he fired a burst from his Vickers guns. He was still too far away to hit anything, but the noise was enough to startle Wilks into realising his peril.

For an instant, the triplanes were distracted by this new threat; Biggles saw one of the pilots staring, undecided, at the strange apparition beneath him.

"You might well stare," he muttered grimly. "What I wouldn't give to be able to shoot at you properly!" The other three Fokkers carried on after the S.E. 5, which was now streaking back towards the British Lines. "He's not going to make it..." Biggles was just about to make a last rush at the triplanes and risk losing his passenger when another Camel appeared on the scene.

Standing almost on its nose, it dived through the Fokkers, scattering them; seconds later, one of the triplanes went into a spin, black smoke streaming out behind it.

The pilot who had stayed to have a closer look at Biggles's Camel started once more towards the action; Biggles sent a fusillade of warning shots in front of the pilot, reluctant to try and hit the man when he had so obviously held back from shooting at Biggles.

The Fokker's pilot dodged and tried again; Biggles fired another warning. 'If he ignores that, he's had it,' he thought. Apparently the German decided to take the hint this time, for he spun round and began to head for home. A glance at what was happening with the other aeroplanes showed why; a second Fokker had followed the first in an earthbound spiral, while the third was being chased back towards its own Lines by the Camel, which Biggles now recognised as Algy's.

"Thank God for that," he breathed. "But what's happened to Wilks?"

Then he saw the S.E. 5, plummeting towards the ground with a dead prop, although the pilot was obviously still making a desperate attempt to control it. It appeared to flatten out at no more than 2,000 feet, and bounced, rather than landed, in a field just on the right side of the Lines, ending by crashing into a tree.

Biggles, who had by now caught up with Wilks's machine, landed in the next door field and leapt out of his cockpit, forgetting the German, who was still clinging to the Camel, altogether. He dashed over to the crashed machine, turning pale as he realised the pilot had not yet got out; ordinarily, the threat of fire after a crash would have left any pilot scrambling for cover the instant they hit the ground.

He reached the S.E. just as Wilks began to make a feeble attempt to move. His face was a ghastly shade of white under the blotchy pink rash of his measles; and a livid bruise on his forehead showed where he had been knocked out by flying debris. He opened his eyes, however, as Biggles dragged him out of the remains of the cockpit and dropped him on the ground. With an accusing glare at his rescuer, he exclaimed as fiercely as he could manage,

"What do you think you were doing? That was my balloon!"

Biggles spluttered in amazement. "Is that all the thanks I get for coming to see if you're all right?"

Wilks, who had been looking about him rather dazedly, groaned in reply, and buried his face in one hand.

"What is it?"

"I... Biggles, I don't feel well," he said croakily. "I... I keep seeing Huns everywhere." Biggles grinned. "Don't laugh! First I saw one on top of your Camel, and now there's one walking across the field with Algy Lacey. What's happening to me?"

"Didn't you know?" inquired Biggles solemnly. "That's why they call it German measles. There's not much hope once you start seeing Huns; it only happens in the most serious cases."

"It's not funny!" cried Wilks. "How would you like it if..."

"All right, all right; keep your hair on. He's yours anyway." Biggles waved the newcomers over. "He's not badly hurt!" he called. "At least, you aren't, are you?" He looked back at Wilks anxiously.

"My shoulder... collar bone, I think, and my ankle... I don't really know. I was aching like hell all over before I even got out of bed."

Algy hurried up to them, followed by the German observer.

"He's given his parole," said Algy, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the German, "But he wanted to come and help. Are you all right?" He grinned at Wilks. "I thought you'd had it that time."

"Is... is he real?" stammered Wilks, peering through his fingers at the German.

"Real? Of course he's real! Biggles brought him all this way specially for you."

"But... but..."

"Well, I promised you a piece of that sausage, didn't I?" demanded Biggles. "He's part of the contents. Of course, we weren't to know you were so desperate for four days' Paris leave that you'd risk going West just to try and get it."

Wilks opened and closed his mouth speechlessly for a moment or two; then he burst out,

"I'm not! But you always win everything, and it's not fair!"

Whatever Biggles's reply to this might have been, it was cut short as a big touring car pulled up in the road outside the field, and the occupants climbed out.

"Here's the Colonel," remarked Algy.

Colonel Raymond came dashing across the field to reach them, his eyes fixed on their prisoner; then, seeing Wilkinson's spotted countenance, he took a hurried step backwards.

"What's going on?" he queried. "Where did this German come from?"

"He's Wilks's- that is, Wilkinson's," answered Biggles quickly.

"Get lost, Biggles! He isn't mine, and you know it!"

"Go and stick your head in an oil sump, Wilks. He's yours."

"He is not!"

"Is!"

"I'm not putting in a claim for your Hun!"

"But I'm giving him to you! He's definitely yours!"

"Officers! Gentlemen!" began Colonel Raymond; but the German observer, who had until now stood silent, suddenly put in,

"Excuse, but I give my parole to this gentleman here," he indicated Algy, "So perhaps I belong to he?"

Biggles and Wilks stopped abruptly, gaping in surprise. Algy chuckled; even the Colonel's lips began twitching.

"Without knowing what has happened, I couldn't possibly comment," he said gravely. "So perhaps one of you would be good enough to explain."

Biggles, seeing the others look towards him, reluctantly began to tell the tale.

"I see," said Colonel Raymond when he had finished. "Well, it seems that the prize should really be divided between you and Lacey..."

Biggles shot an apologetic glance at Wilks, who by this time was sitting shivering violently, looking so thoroughly ill and miserable that Biggles felt he had to do something for him.

"Couldn't we share it three ways, sir?" he asked impulsively.

"He did shoot one of those Tripehounds off my tail," put in Algy. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Did you? Good for you, Wilks!" exclaimed Biggles.

"You needn't sound so surprised about it," returned Wilks ungraciously. He coughed; Colonel Raymond took another step back.

"Captain Wilkinson appears to be in no fit state for leave in Paris or anywhere else," he interrupted. "Added to which, he will be lucky to escape being put on a charge for flying against orders and writing off a valuable aircraft in the process."

Wilks made a sound which could only be described as a whimper.

"But," the Colonel added, his manner relaxing a little, "If you feel like that about it, I'll see what I can do to get him out of it as an alternative to the original prize. Will that do?"

Biggles glanced at Algy; he appeared to consider the offer for a minute or two.

"If you could, sir," he said at last, grinning. "I don't think H.E. would thank us for landing them with Wilks and his spots."

"I hope you catch 'em yourself," muttered Wilks thickly in an attempt to hide his relief. "Teach you to go round pinching other people's sausages."

Biggles shook his head sadly. "You're not still on about that, are you?" he sighed. "Sausages aren't any good for invalids anyway. They'll make you sick. You just go home to bed before I change my mind about Paris." He pointed at the field ambulance which had drawn up beside the Colonel's car. "See? There's even some nice chaps come to give you a lift." Getting to his feet, Biggles inquired, "What shall we do with the Hun- er- the prisoner, sir?"

"Leave him with me," replied Colonel Raymond. "You'd better get back to your own station. I'll see to things here."

"Righto," agreed Biggles cheerfully. "Come on, Algy. So long, Wilks; sorry you can't keep your present after all, but you might have had trouble pinning him to the wall. Better luck next time!"


End file.
